Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

Close your eyes and swallow the host of your lineage in a single mouthful.

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.

Close your eyes and swallow the host of your lineage in a single mouthful.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

Boar: Foolish person / a creature easily tricked. Puer: scarce / timid / aesternus. Puerile: shame / excess humility. Child: kid / tot / ankle-biter. Pipsqueak: cheerful rug rat with wide eyes, as if startled. Little one: sleepless.

Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.

It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.

Close your eyes and swallow the host of your lineage in a single mouthful.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

Simple: naïve / milkweed / that which only seeks to tend its own garden / look at him all cool as a cucumber, and what have you gotten yourself into, little creature? ​

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

Boar: Foolish person / a creature easily tricked. Puer: scarce / timid / aesternus. Puerile: shame / excess humility. Child: kid / tot / ankle-biter. Pipsqueak: cheerful rug rat with wide eyes, as if startled. Little one: sleepless.

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

“he’s not home”
“do you know where he went?”
“to herd none of his sheep”

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

Close your eyes and swallow the host of your lineage in a single mouthful.

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.

It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

Close your eyes and swallow the host of your lineage in a single mouthful.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

Recently you saw a wild plant growing on her grave.

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

Spread out the umbilical skein. Seek the hollow in a needle’s head. Do you want me to sew it on for you? Stretch feet out on the bed. Sew it on to keep me company in the light, because I don’t need it in the dark. Sew up this unraveled sack for good. Exactly what it´s needed to play.

Close your eyes and swallow the host of your lineage in a single mouthful.

Still have the scar from that bubble on the back of your wrist.

Squandered. To veil the veiled. Who or what takes charge of what was never developed?

But they recognize you,
The violin of every song,
You hear golden ovations from the dressing room.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

It will only be real and intense when it detaches from the stalk and its essence dries.

You find laps that sheltered you and the same bosoms nursed you, although he eats from the dish of lentils and what must be eaten unsalted.

She confessed that she was your real mother, but she was so young that she surrendered you for her older sister to raise. In her account, at least your father was the same.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

but what if she comes one day and you’re gone?

Sara Camhaji

visualize the voice of thought.
think the image of the voice.
provoke destiny. play.
from chance, from the sigh.
understand the force that links
the image to the name.
the name is an image.
the image is a verb.
play. nothing is chance.
destiny is a game.
everything is destiny.

This site is part of the project "DON´T TAKE PHOTOS OF THE LANDSCAPE; TAKE PORTRAITS WITH THE VIEW OF THE BACKGROUND IF YOU LIKE", whose creative object revolves around the phenomenon of memory and its conceptual visualization. Thus, Sara explores the different languages on which the mind reloads its truth and the way it constructs our inner world.
About
SARA CAMHAJI (Mexico City, 1986) is a writer, teacher, and mother. Her work is a natural response to her lived experience and the emotional dimensions she has inhabited. She has told and written stories for her entire life. Poetry—the axis of her exploration—has prompted her to develop new discursive forms in close contact with inner human reality; wrenching, they open themselves to embodiment and appropriation. She has a master’s in creative writing, two children, and two published works: Maleza (Alboroto Ediciones, 2022) and this one. A selection of her poems appeared in the UNAM’s Periódico de Poesía. She received a grant from Asylum Arts in 2017 and was awarded the Peleh Fund arts residency in Berkeley, California, for 2023. Narrated poetry or poetic narrative? Sara writes in the voice of an archive with a voice of its own, like a thinking time machine, or from the dark sincerity of she-who-didn’t-know-she-had-to-live.
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